


Heaven Sent a Hurricane

by idoltina



Series: Holiday Land [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Nightmare Before Christmas Fusion, F/M, Gen, Holidays, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:43:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9765461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: After a spectacularly terrible Christmas, a hidden gem of a New Year, and a surprise meeting, Robin finds the course of his life in Holiday Land vastly altered. By the time Valentine’s Day comes around, he’s more miserable (see: overwhelmed, terrified, doubtful) than he ever wanted to or thought he would be. And while the prospect of a night in may make a rather dull holiday for most, Robin finds that coming home to Regina might be just the thing he needs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** adult language, mild descriptions of an anxiety attack, sexual situations
> 
> For [mysterious-song](http://mysterious-song.tumblr.com/), written for [oqcelebration’s OQ Secret Admirer gift exchange](http://oqcelebration.tumblr.com/post/156318779538/love-from-oq). A little AU, a little domesticity, a little bit “so much in love it’s not even funny — or maybe just a little bit.” (With bonus “either Regina or Robin has a dog or cat that the other loves” as a prompt fill for [yaasssqueeen](http://yasssqueeen.tumblr.com/) — well, sort of, anyway.)

It’s nearly half four by the time Robin’s ready to pack it in. His brain’s gone a bit fuzzy, eyes crossed and vision blurred even _with_ his reading glasses as he scans over the same line at least six times before he realizes he’s not making any more progress today. And to be fair, he’s been at this nearly the length of a normal shift, had even taken a break to pop over to New Year’s Town to grab a bite with Will before throwing himself back into his work. But this is decidedly… more than he’s ever really done before, and even though he’s a month into the endeavor, he can’t say he’s quite gotten used to the mental shift just yet.

For the first time since his recruitment, Robin thinks he’s starting to feel his Surface age — an old dog learning every trick in the book in order to pass them on.

As much as being the Official Lists Handler has improved his memory, Robin still finds himself relying on an abundance of notes to keep records in their proper place. And though it pains him to admit it, he has not always been the most… organized person, nor the most studious, so taking some cues from Snow and Regina this last month has spared him a lot of panic and pain. They’ve equipped him with folders and tabs and sticky notes alike, impressed upon him the importance of categorizing and tagging properly to make resources more easily referenced. Snow’s even got him color-coordinating topics and areas of research, and Regina, well.

Regina is the one who presses books into his hands, pulls the mask from his eyes and guides him toward the light.

For now, though, she remains Halloween Town’s official Project Coordinator; how long that will last depends largely on the results of Robin’s research. So, you know, no pressure or anything, it’s not like he’s shouldered the burden of representing millions upon millions of souls, not like he holds the fate of Holiday Land in his grasp or staked his entire reputation on a fucking _presentation_ just to get the Council to _consider_ the proposal more seriously, not like he’s fucking cocked things up beyond all repair and done Regina an immense disservice and no, no.

No.

Robin huffs out a harsh breath and runs his fingers through his hair, head bowed and eyes closed for a long moment as he tries to find his way back to center. The wood of the table is a hard, harsh grind against his elbows, edges of the chair digging into his thighs and he’s almost _too_ present, too rooted to the ground beneath his feet and the stillness of the air around him. He swallows hard, _chest aching as tears sting at his eyes_ , exhaustion weighing down his shoulders and it’s so quiet, _quiet_ around him, nothing but the stilted beating of his heart and the _crackle-pop of Regina’s —_ their _fireplace in the dead of night. And then Regina’s hands are cupping his face, her touch_ igniting warmth all over his skin, and the _steady, strong, sure hold of her gaze_ is a ghost burned onto his eyes.

Her voice rings clear, even in the absence of sound: _if we had built the world around each other, we wouldn’t be here right now_.

All at once, Robin breathes, slow and even, muscles relaxing as his fingers find the back of his neck and massage at the places that hurt the most. She’d been right, back then, gentle and firm and reminding him _exactly_ why he’d fallen for her in the first place: Regina still sees _him_ , as he is, and though they occupy the same space, each of them is a tower in their own right, bond bridging the chasm between. Together they form an island, and when the world Above shifts ground in the hollows of Below — whenever Robin is on the verge of drowning Down and the fractures of his pieces threaten to crack, shatter — he remembers that Regina had seen bravery in him, first.

He is not alone in this.

“Alright,” Belle sighs, startling him out of his reverie, “I am officially kicking you out.”

Robin blinks up at her through his reading glasses and offers up a tired smile, head propped up against his hand. “You didn’t have to stay. Despite recent events, I don’t actually require supervision to use the library.”

There’s a flicker of something uncomfortable in Belle’s eyes, but it’s gone with a blink, replaced instead with arched eyebrows and pursed lips as she clearly fights a smile. “And whose permission did you need again to set up camp here indefinitely while you work on this little project?”

“Permission?” Robin echoes, barking out a laugh. “You offered!”

“Yes, well,” Belle sniffs, glancing pointedly at the piles upon piles of books around him, “if I hadn’t, you’d be lugging those back and forth every day. And I’m sorry,” she adds, barely biting back a laugh. “I know you’ve spent ample amounts of time in that house in the last year, and will continue to do so indefinitely, but I’ve spent rather a bit more time there than you over the years. All of the magic in Holiday Land couldn’t create enough storage space to accommodate your little collection here.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Robin muses. “Regina managed to manufacture quite a bit after Christmas.”

“Exactly,” Belle counters, straightening a few of the piles of books for him. “That place is practically bursting at the mortar already. It’s either you or the books, I’m afraid, and I like to think I know your wife well enough to assume she’d prefer you spend your nights at home in bed with her than spend day and night trying to get comfortable in these chairs.”

His heart skips a beat over _wife_ , thumb tracing idly over the mark around his left wrist. It’s a small distraction, really, from the issue at hand, but the magnitude of it feels amplified on the heels of what has been a very long day — a very long month, or several months, really. For a moment, it’s as if _vena amoris_ is more than the myth he knows it to be; there’s a distinct thrum between his left wrist and his heart, magic mingling with his blood along the bond and seeping into his soul. He can _feel_ her, in his veins, couldn’t get her out even if he wanted to, if he tried — and of the fractures forming fractals in his soul, the fragment attached to this tether is not one he can afford to break or lose.

Robin had fallen Down and Regina had been the mirror waiting for him on impact, reflecting pieces back at him — reminding him that he’d already fought his way back to something more whole.

He has not shattered, not yet.

( _Not ever again_ , his soul whispers back, and it’s equal parts petals Marian had placed in his hands, the mask he’d tied over his eyes.

 _Push back_ , Regina had said. _The world does not get to define who you are_ , and Robin is every bit the sum of his parts.)

Still, even with more than enough motivation to pack it in and head home (and there’s a thrill there, curling his toes, that his heart has found home once more), today is not a day Robin can simply continue to cash in on Belle’s generosity. “I don’t disagree,” he sighs, sitting up straight and surveying the spread of notes in front of him. “But it’ll be obviously be a few days before I can pick up again — I can’t just leave all of this lying around.”

“Take the notes,” Belle suggests. “Leave the books. I’ll make sure everything stays in its proper place, but you really needn’t worry. No one other than the legal sub will be in here tomorrow. Everyone else will be —”

“— at the post party, yeah,” Robin dismisses, reaching up to remove his reading glasses and tucking them carefully in their case. “Speaking of,” he ventures, shuffling his notes together in at least something resembling a coherent order, “is that why you’re kicking me out of here early? You’ve plans for tonight?”

“Yes, actually,” she replies, rolling her eyes when Robin quirks a curious eyebrow at her, “with Ruby. She normally has a date, but she’s sworn off any… amorous encounters for the holiday — which I support, mind you, helps get her mind off Victor and all.”

He _hmm_ s, clipping together his piles of papers and sliding them into folders. “I’m inclined to agree, though if Ruby’s about-face manages to stick, perhaps we should sic both her and Regina on Will if he somehow manages to get worse this year.”

Belle offers up a sympathetic smile, taking the folders he passes her and depositing them into his satchel for him. “Regina’s normally pretty good about sorting people out,” she agrees, “and I know Will’s a bit… mawkish, when it comes to Ana, but I wouldn’t be so hard on him. Ana’s had just as much of a hand in the way things have played out between them as he has.”

“True,” Robin allows, handing her the last folder and pushing himself to his feet, stretching back and limbs until things start to pop back into place. “So I gather that Ruby’s little personal pledge means she’s calling in the cavalry to help paint the towns tonight?”

“Yes — well, half of us, anyway,” she amends. “The invitation extended to Regina as well, but we knew she had other plans for the holiday.”

Robin barks out a half-laugh as he relaxes his muscles and reaches over to retrieve his blazer from where he’d draped it over the chair. “If by plans you mean cooking dinner and popping open a bottle of red, sure.”

“It’s more than she’d ever do before,” Belle reasons. “It might not be much, but the fact that you’ve managed to get her to even recognize the holiday like this is just… nice, is all. I mean, I love her, don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly, “but she’s always been a touch… cynical. Not that it’s not warranted, but down here it just means that there’s more of a disconnect. We want to spend the time with _her_ , but —”

“— she’s not all that keen on celebrating,” Robin supplies knowingly, shrugging into his blazer. He gives himself a few beats to hesitate, distracts himself with packing up the rest of his belongings and pulling out his keyring before he offers up any other reply. “Regina’s… warming toward engaging in festivities,” he says finally, tugging the strap of his satchel onto his shoulder. “She just needs to be able to to it in her own time — her own way. Tonight was her idea, not mine.”

Belle’s eyes spark with light, at that, warmth curving her smile at the corners, but she’s careful about trying to conceal what he knows are flickers of hope, clearly trying to keep her expectations realistic. “Well,” Belle huffs, hands on her hips as she levels him with a look that is not at all intimidating, “much as I’m glad for that, I’ll thank you both to _enjoy your festivities_ anywhere but my library, please.”

Robin’s teeth dig into his lower hip, face flushing at the memory, but he bites back the remark he really wants to make and merely shrugs sheepishly at her instead. “We’ll certainly try,” he teases, “but we’re still in the honeymoon stage here, I think. We can’t be held responsible for our actions.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Belle warns, eyes narrowing a little, “you can. Otherwise I _will_ make supervision a requirement any time you two are so much as in the _building_ at the same time, regardless of proximity.”

Robin chuckles, he cannot help it, but he raises his hands in surrender and doesn’t comment further. She spins on her heel with all of the flourish of a dandelion and gestures at him to follow her out of the study nook. He follows, obediently and without a word, but his footsteps slow halfway out of the shelves, gaze lingering on the aisle marked _Palaeontology_ a few seconds too long before he smiles, shakes his head, and presses on.

Belle has a point, he supposes, about just how free he and Regina are in their regard at times; the afternoon Belle had gone down a floor to retrieve some packages from the central travel hub last July is proof enough of that. It had been one of the rare times during his and Regina’s endeavor to be intimate in every Town in Holiday Land that they _hadn’t_ almost been caught. And while fucking Regina at the end of that aisle, sweaty and bare and trying desperately to keep quiet, certainly ticked off a box on their list, that secret, he thinks, is best kept to themselves.

Belle would probably faint if she ever found out — and then ban them from the library for the rest of eternity.

For now, Robin keeps his mouth shut, and together they make their way out of the library and down the stairs to the ground floor of Oversight proper, making idle chatter as they go. He inquires after her plans for the evening — or Ruby’s plans, rather, advises layers and practical shoes that Ruby will most likely lament over. In turn Belle asks after his research, shows interest at his discoveries in France and makes a suggestion or two about sections of the library that might be beneficial to him. She keeps his interest, certainly, but he’s also very much aware that she’s trying to make sure he doesn’t notice the way heads turn or gazes linger too long when they maneuver their way through some of the crowds.

He _does_ notice — of course he does, how could he not — but he’s also just as determined not to give any of it undeserved attention. Much like Regina, he’s not all that troubled with what others think of him. While it’s true that Robin isn’t particularly used to being in the spotlight — he’s Mister Cloak-and-Dagger, after all — it’s not being the center of attention that makes him uncomfortable, but the why. They’re staring, whispering for one of two reasons (or both, but it hardly matters): either they have… _opinions_ about what happened at Christmas and the way it’s impacted his work now, or they’re engaging in idle gossip, exchanging rumors and theories about what he and Regina had done, last month. Robin is ashamed of _none_ of these things, but for now, they impact no one outside of the two of them.

In the wake of so much scandal, Robin thinks he’s beginning to understand a bit better Regina’s bottom line: their personal lives are private, and absolutely no one else’s business.

So Robin leaves Oversight with his head held high and not a backward glance, sees Belle to the front door of the high-rise Oversight apartments, and bids her goodbye, lingering outside of the two towers until she’s gone inside.

A gust of wind blows through the forest once the door’s shut behind her, smacking his skin with a sharp snap of cold. He digs through his satchel for his scarf, muttering under his breath about Mother Nature’s mood swings and frowning all the while. It’s a bit irritating to even need the bloody thing in the first place: he grew up in England, lived most of his adult life on the east coast of the States and spent nine years quite literally surrounded by frost and snow. He has a thick skin, shouldn’t need to bundle up over some bluster, but by the time he’s setting off down the path toward the Grove, his mood is downright foul, gray and grumpy.

He falters when he steps up into the Grove, making to go left for a split second before he half-stumbles and alters course back to the right, and he swears under his breath as he stalks toward the Town’s tree door. It’s been nearly two months, he should be used to this by now, shouldn’t let the slip-up bother him this much, but he’s not, it doesn’t, and he’s gritting his teeth against acknowledging the reason why as he reaches for the handle of the jack o’lantern door and yanking it open.

His skin does settle, though, once he rematerializes at the entrance to Halloween Town, shoulders slumping in marginal relief. It’s not quite as bad here; there aren’t as many discordant reminders of the place he used to have down here, no shadows following him home or pine tree shaped holes trying to carve out space in his heart. The graveyard that greets him upon arrival still makes him feel a bit… off-kilter, though, an uncomfortable reminder of what — who he’s lost, and the gray skies overhead do little to lift his mood.

Christmas Town may have been constantly covered in snow, but at least they had sun most days.

With a heavy sigh, Robin adjusts his scarf around his neck and sets off down the lane toward the town square. He’s at least gotten used to the ravens and their shrill cawing at all hours; he hardly flinches at the sound any more, has mostly managed to tune them out and prides himself on being able to sleep through the night without being jarred awake. It’d been different, before: his overnights here with Regina had been sporadic enough last year that he hardly noticed the intrusive sound, too focused on making the most of their time together to be bothered by it.

Staying here every night — _living_ here has proven to be more than a bit of an adjustment for him, challenging in a way he’s not sure he was all that prepared for. It’s not as though Halloween Town is unfamiliar to him — he’s taken dozens of walks hand-in-hand with Regina in the last year — and it’s not so much that he dislikes the overall aesthetics and ambiance either. It’s well constructed, Halloween Town, equal parts creepy and comfortable, and for a place whose chief exports are spooks and spirits and mischief alike, there’s still something altogether inviting in the air, mysterious and warm and intriguing.

He just… feels a bit out of place, is all, not quite in his element here. Regina wears Halloween like a second skin, very much embodies all of that tantalizing temptation of what lies beyond the veil, but there’s more to her than that — there always has been. She is every bit the land beneath their feet, magic spilling from her fingers and reaching up to the Surface like roots creeping up from Under, ready to break new ground and blossom into the air. And it’s not like Robin is all that different, but the ways in which he goes about his own cloak-and-dagger are not the same. He’s always been direct, deliberate and bright, prefers to be in the thick of the bustle Above and leave no questions as to the intents behind his spirits.

Where Regina is perhaps a touch too cynical, Robin has always been far too optimistic for his own good — until recently, anyway.

His brow wrinkles at the thought as he brushes by ghouls practicing vanishing spells in the middle of town square. He’s been coming back to that more and more lately, discontent and displeased with himself for all the ways in which the world has stripped him of his faith. It has panic sparking and spiraling up in his chest, just small little flares but he _does not_ like it. He doesn’t like the way it submerges him back Down and drowns him in the memory of turning his face Up and seeing the whole world backlit by blue.

Tears sting at his eyes again, burning worse than they had in the library, and he’s swallowing hard to keep them at bay. He adjusts the strap of his satchel on his shoulder, ducks his head down and picks up pace down the cobblestone path through the housing sector off the left of the town square, his gait a bit awkward with the ground uneven below his feet. The walk to the far end of the development feels longer today than usual and he absolutely knows it’s due to his sour mood, but he keeps his brisk pace anyway, knowing that the sooner he arrives at the end of the lane, the sooner he’ll start to feel better.

For every piece Robin drops along the way, he knows Regina will have them ready for him when he gets home — waiting for him to be ready to take them back on his own, and to recognize each piece as unchanged from Before.

He is every bit the sum of his parts, still very much whole, and his tower will not fall so long as he doesn’t try to topple it to the ground from the inside out.

At last he turns round the last bend in the path, instantly breathing a little easier at the sight of the two-story rook tower looming at the end of Witchcraft Heights, and the last of the tension in his muscles bleeds out of him as he makes his way down the lane toward the front gate. He stops just outside to retrieve any post from the mailbox, tucking the small handful of envelopes under his arm before he pulls open the wrought-iron gate with an eerie creak, the sound like music to his ears. He lingers at the threshold, though, gaze pulled toward the mailbox again. He hesitates, but only for a beat, before he indulges himself in tracing the glittering gold calligraphy he’d painted along the side just last month.

 _Mills-Locksley_ beams bright even at the height of dusk and it’s like an arrow straight to Robin’s heart, every bit the reminder he’s needed all day that he _does_ still have a place down here, even if the rest is uncertain — that he is, at his core, the same man he’s always been, the person he aspires to be. Here is the place Robin’s heart calls home, and his soul is tethered to the person who’s so willingly shared it with him.

Right now he is admittedly… tired, longing to let go of some of the worry he’s carried around for the last month or so, but he’s at least smiling a little now, heart coming back down to rest. He smooths his thumb over the lettering once more before pulling away and turning back to the front path up to the house, ready to make his way forward. He finds his progress halted once more though once he catches sight of a clowder of the neighborhood cats meandering about the garden, a few of them draped gracefully over pumpkins. They’ve probably come round for dinner, he expects, and in spite of every firm protest Regina makes to the contrary, he knows that most of them are very much _hers_ — casually, if not officially. She refuses to let them into the house or give them names like Hepburn had in _Tiffany’s_ , but she does feed them, twice a day, has for decades, and Robin had been charmed to find the cat house she’d set up in the back for the days when Mother Nature decided they could use a bit of rain.

One of the little ones ambles its way over to him now, a small, wispy gray fluff of perpetual kitten, and Robin can’t help the way his smile breaks open at the way it immediately rubs against him, mewing pathetically as it weaves its way between his legs. “Yes, yes,” he chuckles, bemused but not giving in, “it’s getting to be about that time. I’ll have a word with your mum about setting the bowls out back soon, alright?” Another mew, this one slightly less pathetic, but Ghost headbutts his ankle affectionately and toddles back across the yard to the rest of them and oh, oh _no_.

Oh, Regina would kill him for naming one of them, _shit_.

And while they might not have room for a few extra books, they _absolutely_ do not have room to house a clowder of cats fifteen large for all eternity.

With a sigh, Robin walks the rest of the way to the front door, key slotting into the lock with ease. He pushes the door open and has hardly taken a step inside when all of his senses are flooded at once. There’s a warm glow to the first floor, fire popping quietly in the background. The entire room smells rich and robust, of wine and game and bread baked fresh. Music dances its way across the room from the old record player in the corner, an up-tempo, jazzy number that he thinks is probably from Regina’s Surface era, or close to it, the volume just a hair too loud for anything else to really be heard.

And there, on the opposite side of the kitchen facing out the bay window to the backyard, is Regina, attention focused on the cutting board in front of her. The music’s loud enough that he thinks she hadn’t heard him come in or shut the door quietly behind him, and Robin takes advantage of it for a moment or two once he hangs his blazer and scarf and satchel on the coat stand by the front door, hardly sparing a glance at the post before tossing it on the kitchen table. He grips the top of one of the chairs, resting his weight against it a little as he takes his wife in properly.

She’s changed out of her work clothes into the soft, half-sleeve gray sweater dress she likes so much but absolutely refuses to wear outside the house; it’s too casual, for one, and far, far too short to be appropriate, doesn’t even quite hit mid-thigh. But it’s exceedingly comfortable, Robin knows, which is the entire point of tonight — to avoid any and all manner of things that would put them out on display and force them out of their skin. And after the day he’s had, he finds himself more and more grateful that Regina had suggested they keep tonight lowkey: he needs it just as much as she does. Still, Robin would be lying if he said that the sight of her in this little number didn’t… do things for him. She’s dancing slightly in place with the music, rocking up slightly on the balls of her feet in alteration, hips swaying and causing the bottom of her dress to rise just enough to tease.

Heat pulls, twists low in Robin’s belly, and he is immensely grateful for the fact that they are blessedly alone, behind closed doors and within the walls of their own home. It means they can be entirely free in their regard, can touch and tease and turn into one another without any care for the world outside. And he needs that right now, desperately, needs to be able to close his eyes and drift into Regina’s storm, safe from drowning Down.

So it’s with a stutter in his chest that his heart pulls him forward, thrumming down the line to his wrist as he closes the gap between them and comes to rest just behind her. His hands hover just long enough for him to murmur _hello, gorgeous_ into her ear — long enough for her to halt the movement of the knife in acknowledgment of his presence — before he’s pressing against her, front to back. He curls his arms around her middle and tucks his face against her neck, eyes slipping shut as he just… breathes her in for a long moment, reveling in the way she leans back into him. “You’re home early.”

“Figured I might as well,” she replies. “Ruby was itching to get out of there anyway, she has plans —”

“— with Belle, yeah, I heard,” he tells her. She _hmm_ s in acknowledgement, still simply leaning into the way he’s wrapped around her, and Robin can’t help the way he nuzzles in a bit closer, determined to drown in her warmth.

It’s barely another moment more before there’s a quiet _thunk_ to indicate she’s set the knife back down. He feels her fingertips brush against his skin, rubbing up and down along his arms before she sucks in a breath to speak. “What happened?” she asks plainly, and before he can so much as _think_ about denying her, she tacks on, “And _don’t_ tell me it’s nothing because bond or no bond, I _know_ you, Robin Locksley, and I know when something’s wrong. Spill.”

It’s his turn to suck in a breath, quiet and thin but it’s there, he’s sure she’s heard it. Most days he is grateful for this, the fact that Regina can riddle him out fairly well most of the time, but today it’s the opposite of what he wants. He doesn’t want to dwell on it, doesn’t want to keep them submerged in his foul moods every night. Tonight, he just wants to _be_ , to lean into the light and forget, even just for a little while. So it’s half-deliberately that he lifts his face from her neck to drag his lips up and around the shell of her ear to try and shift focus. “It _is_ nothing,” he dismisses. “I’ve just… had a bit of a banner day, is all.”

Regina isn’t fooled for a single goddamn second, and she’s shrugging him off just enough so she can turn around in his arms and level him with a glare. “What did I _just_ say?”

“It’s nothing _new_ ,” he amends with a sigh, settling his hands at the small of her back. “Just the same stress and worry I’ve been carrying around for weeks. There’s no reason to keep having the same conversation over and over again, it’s tired — _I’m_ tired of it, aren’t you?”

Her face softens around the edges, just a touch, brow wrinkling a little as she studies him. He’s nothing to hide, not really, so he lets her look him over, finds comfort in the press of her palms against his chest. At long last, she exhales sharply and turns back around, hands gripping the edge of the counter instead of reaching for the knife. “Will you at least tell me if there was something specific that happened today?”

Robin relents, just a little, and moves back into her space, sweeping her hair away from her neck to press a kiss to the skin there. “Nothing specific,” he promises, “just more research. There’s so much of it to weed through, and even after that, it’s proving to be a bit of a challenge to try and cherry pick the more important parts of the relevant pieces. And there’s not a whole lot of time to do it before the proposal presentation, so I’m just a bit… overwhelmed, is all.”

At that, Regina finally gives a little too, sighing softly as she reaches back to take his hand in hers, fingers laced together as they find anchorage on her hip. “You’ll be fine,” she says, at least trying to sound somewhat reassuring. “It’s like the eleventh hour before final exams, all that last-minute, late night cramming — _don’t_ ,” she warns, gently nudging his ribs with her elbow as he fails at stifling a snicker, but she’s on the verge of laughing too. “I’m trying to help you feel better, jerk.”

“Well, cramming probably _would_ help me feel better —”

“ _Robin_ ,” she says firmly, still laughing even as she elbows him a little harder.

“It’s an apt comparison,” he chuckles, pulling her flush against him and dropping a kiss to her cheek. “I just never had all that much experience with that sort of thing beyond what was mandatory after secondary. The citizenship test for the States, maybe, but that’s a bit different, and all of that was ages ago anyway. I’m a bit out of my element when it comes to things like this, that’s all.”

She freezes a good three or four seconds before he does, the realization a bit delayed between them, and this time when she turns around in his embrace she’s slower about it, more deliberate, cautious. “I’m… sorry,” she says carefully, eyes flicking over his face like she’s looking for signs of discontent. “You just come across as reasonably well-read and you’re articulate, quick your feet. And it was so long after my time that I guess I just… assumed, I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s alright,” he assures her, moving to cradle her jaw affectionately, thumb sweeping up over the apple of her cheek. “It was my choice, doesn’t bother me all that much. Honestly, I think I’ve always been a bit more surprised that you went on to university,” he admits, trying to level the playing field a bit. “It just… didn’t seem like the thing women did, during your Surface era.”

“It wasn’t — not really,” she drawls, dry and derisive, but she’s relaxed in his embrace, less anxious over the little hiccup. “We _could_ , but most didn’t, and if they did it wasn’t for the purpose of an actual education. After my parents divorced, my father went a little overboard in making sure I had options and… I liked to learn — still do, really. Discovering the Oversight library after I was recruited was like a dream: they have _everything_ there. So I read, a lot, and tried to absorb and retain as much of it as I could.”

Robin’s lips curve into a smile. “It’s no wonder you and Belle got on so well once she was recruited.”

“Well,” she muses, arching up on the balls of her feet to graze her lips against his, “we do love books.”

“Yes,” he chuckles, stealing a soft kiss before she rocks back down, “and that has proven to be... immensely helpful in recent weeks, really. I’m indebted to you all for your help.”

Regina’s smile falters, bottom lip tugged between her teeth as she considers him. “I have… just as much stake in this as you do, remember? We’re in this together. And if you’re really feeling that overwhelmed, I can take some of it off of your hands. I’ve barely done any since we started, I don’t mind —”

“And of the two of us,” he argues, “you’re the one pulling full work hours with an actual paycheck, so —”

“That doesn’t make what you’ve been doing in the library any less _work_ , Robin,” she counters firmly, her tone clearly brooking no argument. “This is important, too.”

He heaves a great sigh, distracts himself with brushing hair away from her brow, but the tension around his resistance unfurls in his chest, leaving space for something warmer to wrap around his heart. As much as he doesn’t want to keep coming back to this, he has to own that Regina is right, here, and a little compromise might go a long way in shifting them back to center. For an instant, the memory he’d called upon to keep calm in the library earlier meets the present, and Regina is so much _more_ than the thrumming in his veins — tethered to his soul and all around him, a buffer between the light and dark.

Robin is safe, here, with her.

He softens a little around the edges, fingertips falling down to trace along the neckline of her dress. “I’ll tell you what,” he suggests. “I will agree to share more of the workload for the proposal presentation — _after_ the holiday, mind you — if you’ll promise that it won’t consume every moment of our free time.” He hesitates, just for a beat, and brings his hand down to rest over her heart. “I know how important this is if we’re to initiate any change around here, but.. _we’re_ important too, Regina. I just… don’t want us to get lost in the crusade. I already feel enough out of sorts as it is.”

It’s a slip, that last bit, an admission he was in no way intending or prepared to make, and given the way Regina’s face falls, it doesn’t go unnoticed. “ _Robin_ ,” she breathes, voice breaking a little at the end of his name, and he knows what’s coming, knows she’s ready to remind him otherwise.

But where he’d felt like he needed it, earlier, he finds he’s not ready for it now, not yet. He wants to save it, tuck it away for safe keeping for later — after the wine has had time to sink in and take the edge off, once he’s more at ease and settled for the evening. He’ll be more receptive to it then, he knows, will be able to take it to heart a bit better, and given how much he feels he’s been in shambles lately, he needs the intensity of the impact now more than ever. “Can we just… pause for a bit?” he requests, breath rushing out of him all at once. He leans in closer, rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, just for another minute more. “Do what we planned for tonight? Uncork the bottle of wine, have dinner, curl up on the couch for a while? Can we just… enjoy tonight before we dig in that deep?”

She’s quiet for a beat before her fingertips are dancing up his chest, hand coming to rest over his heart in a deliberate mirror to his own gesture. “Deal.”

His mouth is on hers before he can even really think it through, the kiss harder than he would’ve intended. Regina stumbles back with the force of it, bumping back against the edge of the counter, and the noise of surprise she makes is lost in the sharp inhale she’s forced to take. Her lips press, drag, part and pull away for barely a breath before she’s kissing back, fingers curling, clutching the material of his shirt to pull, tug him flush against her once more. It’s his turn to stumble, drown in the way the kiss turns a little desperate, his hands smoothing, roving over her as he seeks out purchase. He finds it along her ribs, a hand tucked underneath the curve of her breast, the other skimming down and around to grasp her ass.

His fingertips land just below the curve of her ass, along the hem of her dress, and his skin dances, skitters across hers, teasing, tempting. Regina responds in kind, lips and legs parting for him with ease as she arches away from the counter into him, leg beginning to curl around his in invitation. Robin tries, fails to stifle a half-moan into her mouth, hand tightening over her ribs as he leans in closer, kisses her long and slow and deep and yes, _yes_ , this is what he needs right now. He needs the glory of getting lost in the low, simmering heat of intimacy, needs his mind vacant of anything else other than _want_ and _love_ and _Regina_ and _safe, home_.

He’s stepping into the space between her legs without another thought, worry in his mind fizzling out to white noise as he slides his hand down her ass to the back of her thigh, hitching her leg up just enough to start to curl around him. She pulls out of the kiss with a low gasp, head tossed back just enough to expose her neck to him. “We’re not — _oh_ ,” she groans, breath hitching around a gasp as he sucks a hot kiss to her neck, teeth nipping at her skin. “Not in the kitchen,” she manages, breath coming quicker now as he hoists her leg up a little higher. “We’re not — _fuck_ ,” she chokes out, hips bucking up against his thigh as he presses more firmly against her. The earlier twist of arousal flares up in his belly again, has his cock twitching in his trousers and yes, fuck, absolutely, that sounds like a brilliant idea, why the bloody hell is she trying to convince herself otherwise?

Abruptly, he finds himself pulled away from her neck, her hand yanking on his hair to move him eye level with her. “Food,” she huffs out, but her eyes are still dark with desire. “Fire. Knives.”

“Immortal,” he counters, muttering under his breath.

“Not in the kitchen,” she says with absolute finality.

Robin doesn’t care enough to argue with her at this point. “Fine,” he grumbles, tucking her leg against him firmly before he’s smoothing a path back up along the back of her thigh so he can carry her out of the kitchen. The couch will have to do, he thinks, perhaps the rug in front of the fireplace; he can’t be bothered to try making the trek all the way up the spiral staircase to the second floor just to have her properly in their bed. He dips a hand up underneath the hem of her dress this time, seeking to grab proper hold of her ass for purchase. He relishes the way she sucks in a breath and bites back a grin in anticipation, can’t help but tug his lower lip between his teeth in kind. He leans in closer the farther up her dress his hand goes, all the way until there’s barely a breath between their mouths, and he’s just shy of stealing a hot kiss when he stops, hand halting beneath her dress.

She’s not wearing any underwear.

“ _Fucking hell_ , Regina,” he all but growls, bruising a kiss against her lips and diving in for a second at her answering laugh (a giggle, it’s absolutely a giggle, and she will deny it until the end of fucking time, god, she’s ridiculous). “You know,” he mumbles against her mouth, fingertips brushing against her sex and finding her slick, “for someone who doesn’t like celebrating holidays, I’d say you’ve got a pretty good handle on Valentine’s Day.”

“Not Valentine’s,” she says between kisses, hips rocking back to seek out his fingers. “Just you. Or I’d like to, anyway,” she breathes, hands falling down to toy with his belt.

The _minx_ that flashes across his mind is lost once she uses the leg wrapped around him to pull him closer, rocking up on the ball of her foot again to adjust the angle. Her sex is nearly pressed up against where his cock is starting to strain against his slacks, and it would be so easy, he thinks, to toe the line of her ridiculous rule and just fuck her right here against the edge of the counter. He leans in for another kiss, hot and biting as he runs a thumb across her breast, weighing risks against rewards —

“ _MROW._ ”

Regina breaks the kiss with a soft _pfft_ , body shaking against him as she snickers, and that’s it, the moment’s gone, heat fading fast as each of their grips slacken in kind. Robin huffs out a frustrated groan, head falling to her shoulder. “That'll be Ghost,” he mumbles around a sigh. “I may have said I’d have a word with you about putting dinner out back soon.”

“Did you now?” she muses, still laughing a bit. “Well then,” she sighs, shrugging her shoulder to get him to lift his head and look at her, “let me offer you a little wisdom from the wise: be careful what you promise cats. They hold grudges.”

Robin quirks an eyebrow at her. “Is that why you’re so belligerent about the rule keeping them out of the house?”

“I am not _belligerent_ —”

“Adamant, then,” he amends, brushing his nose against hers, and her impending ire fizzles out quickly. “The second we let one in the door, it’s all over?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she insists, untangling her leg from around him to come down to rest on both feet again. “If we let them in and then kick them back out, we’d never hear the end of it — and they don’t even _talk_. And you _are_ kind of a pushover, Robin, so they’d just be back in here not long after anyway.”

“Says the woman who has been feeding them twice daily for decades now,” he teases, squeezing her hip affectionately. “Not to mention the cat house out back —”

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, batting at his chest with a soft _thwack_ to tell him to knock it off. “None of that negates my bottom line here: the cats stay outside.” She bites her lip for a half moment, smile playing at her lips before she ventures, “Why don’t we… hit pause here, too? I can go take care of their dinner out back, and you can wash up, finish what I started in here? Open the wine?”

Robin can’t quite suppress the slight whine in the back of his throat — one that Regina throws him a well deserved _look_ for — but he relents. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he sighs, ducking in to drop a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I suppose we can’t have the whole house burning to ash or anything.”

“Still capable of a good idea every once in awhile,” she teases, eyes bright and smile bemused. “I knew I married you for a reason.”

It’s another arrow to the heart, rooting him to the spot, and for a moment he’s incapable of doing anything other than simply _staring_ at her as she taps his side and shifts out of his embrace to move across the room. And it’s almost silly, really, that he’d be so punch-drunk breathless over every little reminder; this isn’t new to him, he’s been married before. But there is something altogether disarming about watching this woman — his _wife_ peruse the makeshift pantry at the edge of the kitchen, fingers skittering along cans of cat food as she contemplates choices.

Fuck, this is ridiculous, but he cannot help it — can’t help the way a smile plays at his lips or his fingers trace idly over the mark on his left wrist or his stomach flips pleasantly at the mere sight of her. She’s _chosen_ him, Regina, had given him a safe place to land when he’d been Falling, and every last piece they share in this tower — from the surnames side by side on the mailbox, to the cats and pumpkins in the garden, up the spiraling stairs all the way to the rooftop patio — all fit together to make a life, _their_ life, feel very full. And _there’s_ the heart of the matter — each of them has promised to make a life together, regardless of where or when or how long.

Regina’s little reminder had been, unsurprisingly, spot on: they are in this together.

And then she bends over to pluck a handful of cans from one of the lower shelves, hem of her dress riding up just enough to hug the curve of her ass, and the warmth in Robin’s chest twists back into heat, arousal clinging at his core before it’s ever really had the chance to go away. Patience tested, Robin inhales sharply and crosses the room quickly, ready and waiting for her as she straightens back up. She bumps against him with a startled _oh!_ , jostling a bit as she tries not to drop any of the cans, but the second she’s got a firm hold on things, Robin wraps his arms around her, fingers toying with the hem of her dress once more. “In case you weren’t aware,” he murmurs, smirking at the way she gasps, jolts against him when he drags his fingers through her folds, “I am very much looking forward to dessert.”

Regina huffs out sharply through her nose as he lifts his hand to his mouth, but it’s her turn to catch him off guard, it seems, and she’s gripping his wrist and spinning around lightning fast, cans left to magically levitate behind her. And before he can even muster up any quip or protest, she’s sucking his fingers into her mouth, one at a time as she looks up at him through her lashes and fuck, fuck, _fuck_. She doesn’t make so much as a _pop_ when she releases the last finger, just kisses the tips of his fingers gently, lips curving up into a sly smile. “Well,” she muses, voice sounding a little rough, “we can’t have you spoiling your appetite then, can we?”

And without so much as another _word_ , Regina’s releasing him and gathering up the cans once more, hair tossed over her shoulder as she makes her way out the back door.

If they weren’t immortal, he swears she’d be the death of him, _christ_.

But the distance proves to be a good thing, for the time being; it allows his arousal to come back down to a lower simmer, trousers not feeling quite so tight, and he can actually properly focus on the task at hand. So he does as requested, washes up and pulls out the mandolin to finish preparing the curious little dish meant to accompany the duck currently cooking in the oven. It doesn’t take all that long to finish up — she’d done a good handful of the work before he’d come home — and within minutes it’s in the oven alongside the duck.

He’s just finished cleaning up the dishes they’ve used thus far when she ducks back inside, shivering a little as she pulls the door shut behind her. “It’s chilly out there,” she remarks, sliding up next to him and pulling open one of the cabinets. “I think Mother Nature decided to send out a bit of a cold front.”

“I noticed,” he says. “Had to put on a bloody scarf just to walk from Oversight to the Grove on my way home.”

“Well then,” she muses, casting him a small smile as she pulls down a few dishes for serving, “if Jack Frost says it’s cold, I don’t feel so bad about complaining.”

“Probably best you don’t call me that,” he mutters, ducking in to press a quick kiss to her cheek before he moves to uncork the wine bottle. “You’d shatter the poor man’s fragile ego and the walkways would be covered in black ice for _days_.”

Regina’s quiet for a half moment, clearly trying to register the actual existence of said Mr. Frost, but she recovers quickly, plucks two wine glasses down and sets them on the counter for him before closing the cabinet door. She hovers next to him, waits until he’s got the bottle open properly before she’s wrapping her arms around his middle, cheek cushioned comfortably against his back. “We’d have to stay inside,” she murmurs, “find some way to pass the time.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could come up with a few good ideas,” he laughs, playing along.

“True,” she agrees, sounding amused. A beat, and then, a touch softer, “We do make a pretty good team.”

Warmth blossoms fresh in his chest at that, and he turns his head slightly to meet her eyes over his shoulder, lips quirking up into a smile. “That we do,” he murmurs softly, and the light that sparks in her eyes tells him they are bridging the chasm between them, one small step at a time.

The next hour is simple, easy between them. They lean against the kitchen counter for the duration of the cooking time, each of them nursing a glass of wine as they make idle chatter about some of the more interesting parts of their day. (Ruby’s dress for the night’s festivities, apparently, actually goes all the way down to her knees for a change. Meanwhile, Will’s eyebrows had been singed clean off at lunch, the result of an unfortunate experiment in pyrotechnics that he’s been working on for his holiday.)

By the time the food’s ready to come out of the oven, rest and then plate, they’ve both reached the end of their glass. Robin pours them another as Regina portions out servings, and together they take their intimate, smells-sinfully-scrumptious meal to the couch, dishes set carefully on the coffee table. It’s delicious, certainly, rich and decadent and paired well with the wine, and by the time they push their empty plates aside, they’re both in agreement that _actual_ dessert — a surprise Regina had special ordered from a friend who owns a restaurant in New Year’s Town — will have to wait awhile, their bellies too full and warm to even consider it.

The wine, though, that’s fair game, and Robin empties what’s left of the bottle between their glasses. He leans back into the couch cushions with a satisfied groan, smiling warmly at Regina when she drapes her legs over his lap. Slowly, he sips at his wine, hand finding anchorage upon her knee, and Regina matches him in kind, surveying him quietly over the rim of her glass. He can feel the effects of the wine starting to settle in, his eyes growing a little heavy, but he’s not too bad off, still has his wits about him, still feels desire tingling at the bottom of his spine. But he needs time — they both do — and the silence they fall into is comfortable, easy, Robin idly rubbing soft circles over Regina’s knee.

He’s hardly aware of how much time has passed or the fact that his glass is half empty again or that his gaze is unfocused until Regina catches his full attention once more when she sits up, wine glass abandoned, and curls against his side. “Thank you,” she says, tucking her face against his neck, “for agreeing to this tonight. I know it’s not particularly… special, considering the holiday, but it means a lot to me that you didn’t try to drag me out anywhere for it. This was nice, even if it’s not all that out of the ordinary.”

“It’s not necessary,” he assures her, and when she inhales sharply against him, clearly readying a protest, he quickly tacks on, “I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, really, I do. But truthfully? I think I needed this, too. Walking in and out of Oversight this past month has been… a bit uncomfortable, if I’m being honest. I could do without all of the gawking, particularly given that it’ll probably be even worse tomorrow, but —”

“Wait,” she says, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. “What do you mean, it’ll be worse tomorrow?”

“Well,” he says slowly, brow wrinkling a bit as he tries to figure out the best way to navigate this and lord, the wine is not helping, “I just meant it’ll be the first time we’ve really been out in public, together, at an event like this since… everything that’s happened — my little slip-up at Christmas, the ceremony last month. I figure people are bound to be a bit…”

“Nosy,” Regina says, a bit of edge to her voice.

“Overtly curious,” he offers, trying (and failing, he thinks) to make it sound not so bad, shit, he really shouldn’t have mentioned it.

“Nice way of saying nosy,” she mutters, moving her arm to the back of the couch so she can prop her head up on her hand. “I hadn’t even really thought about it but you’re probably right. _God_ , I am not looking forward to that.”

Guilt twinges unnecessarily in his chest, forcing him to remember that they’d both made their choices — that neither of them feels any shame or regret over those decisions. But he can feel the tension in every line and curve of Regina’s body with the way she’s tucked against him, even with the amount of wine they’ve both had. Ache settles into the edges of his lungs, burning every breath he tries to take, and for a minute he just… doesn’t think, squeezes her knee affectionately and lets his heart do the talking. “We... don’t have to go,” he says softly. “If we really think it’s going to be that horribly uncomfortable, we can just stay home — find some way to pass the time,” he suggests, careful with the way his voice turns light.

She studies him for a moment before reaching out to take the glass from his hand and deposit it on the table next to hers. “No,” she sighs, still sounding a touch miserable at the idea, but she’s curling in close again, fingertips tracing along his brow. “Not making an appearance would just give people more reason to gossip. Besides,” she adds, voice falsely bright, “it’s not as though we _care_ what they think.”

“No, of course not,” Robin agrees, but he reaches up to pull her hand down, rubs his thumb soothingly along her palm, and there is knowing there, behind the armor in her eyes. “That doesn’t make them any less presumptuous for trying to pry into matters this personal.”

Just like that, her expression softens, clarity dawning in her eyes as she brings down the front she’d erected just seconds ago, and Robin counts it as a win. “Very presumptuous,” she agrees, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Exceedingly rude.”

“Such horrid manners,” Robin tacks on, leaning in a touch closer.

She hesitates, just for a beat as her eyes flit over his face, and the smile spreads slowly across her face, warm and easy. “Really, it would be considered quite the feat,” she says, “if we managed to survive them.”

“Quite,” Robin laughs, pressing a kiss to her palm before lacing their fingers together. “I’ve been thinking, actually, about some things we could do at the party tomorrow — just the two of us.”

“Oh?” she prompts, voice lighter as she too, scoots in a little closer. “What would those be?”

He bites his lip, debating. “They’re meant to be a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” she says plainly, clearly expecting to get her way.

“You’ll like these,” he promises, leaning in to close the rest of the distance between them. “In the meantime,” he murmurs, low and warm, “tonight, it is just you,” he ghosts a near-kiss over her lips, just shy of touching, “and me, alone.”

Breath lingers between them for a beat, and then their lips are finding each other with gentle, fervent ease for a kiss soft, slow, simmering with heat. Regina’s the one to break it, darting in slightly quicker for the next, not quite so gentle, and Robin responds in kind, gripping her knee a little harder in reply. His fingers flex, hover before trailing up her inner thigh featherlight, lingering at the hem of her dress once more. Again, she breaks, pulls away, not quite so successful at masking the sharp inhale that seizes her lungs, and when her eyes flutter open, Robin feels as though she sees him as the sun.

And when fire and water collide, the time for simple and easy has long since passed.

He feels her dig her heels into the cushion on his other side, grip his hand a little tighter and tug, pulling herself flush against him, and the hand that had lingered at the hem dips beneath it now, fingertips brushing against her sex. It’s all the permission he needs, and he is stealing, _seizing_ the next kiss from her lips, swallowing down the pleased hum buzzing against her lips. The desire simmering at his spine starts to blossom, burn its way back to the rest of his body, bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to be released. His fingers seek, press and drag in the places he can reach, exhaling softly into the break of the kiss when he finds her still wet for him, wanting, waiting.

She grins into the next kiss, curls her free hand around the back of his neck and drags her nails lightly through the hair at the nape. It’s a jolt of arousal straight down, cock twitching in his trousers again and she feels it against her leg, he knows she can, can tell by the way grin grows, twists as she tries to maintain control of the kiss. But he’s done with games for the night. He _wants_ her, wants her bare against him, wants to burn out and forget and drown in the safety of her storm.

So he presses back into her, kissing harsh, hard as his fingers trail down, seeking her entrance. But he can’t quite sink his fingers all the way inside, the angle too awkward and restricted for him to do much more than tease her with the tip of his finger. It yields _some_ results, at least — the way she whines into his mouth and rolls her hips into his hand is indicative enough of that — but it’s not nearly enough for either of them. Robin pulls away from her mouth with a biting drag of her lower lip, enjoying the way her whine turns breathy, strained. And before she can make even the slightest noise of discontent at the way he slips his hand from beneath her dress, he’s relinquishing his grip on her hand and replacing one hand with the other.

And this — _this_ is so much fucking better, the angle far less awkward and affording him more access to her, his fingers dragging deliciously through her folds, pressing lightly against her clit. She’s halfway to another kiss when he ventures back down again, successfully slipping two fingers inside and startling a gasp out of her, eyes squeezing shut at the sensation. He withdraws his fingers just a bit before pressing back inside, grinning, biting his lip when a soft little moan spills from her lips. Out, then in, again and again, each stroke a slow, rhythmic pivot, press, curl into her sex, a delicious drag through her folds.

Regina gently rocks her hips against him, lips hovering just off-center of his, and his next stroke finds his thumb rubbing over clit, surpassing stoking the flame to outright sparking, igniting her alight. Her breath hitches around a gasp, holds and releases in a groan, and both arms are hooked around his neck now, hands finding purchase in his hair as she arches into him. The way she fucks against his hand is a touch more earnest now, breath shallow and stilted and picking up pace and Robin is not unaffected at _all_. His mind is hazy with lust as heat pools low in his belly, cock hard, not quite straining against his slacks again, not yet, but the thought of burying himself in all of her warm, tight heat has him at a loss for words for a moment or two, breath building rapidfire in his lungs.

It takes the breathless, broken whisper of his name falling from her lips — _Robin_ — to pull him back to present, has him swallowing hard as she whines and rocks against his hand. _Robin_ again, bordering on desperate, and she’s going to come soon, he realizes, can tell she’s seeking out more pressure, friction by the way she adjusts slightly against him. His mind races forward again at the realization, has him pulling on the intimate, familiar memory of what it’s like to bury himself inside of her just after she’s come — every slight fluttering aftershock heaven around his cock, the stretch and press of him inside of her preying upon every last sensitive nerve ending she has and pushing her right back up against the precipice.

Need twists, coils at his core, cock _aching_ inside of his trousers, and that’s all it takes for him to curl his fingers inside of her, searching, seeking until she jolts against him with a surprised but no less pleased gasp. “There?” he inquires breathlessly, leaning in until his nose brushes against hers.

“ _Yes_ ,” she keens. She tilts her head slightly, makes to lean in for a kiss, but the drag of his thumb is a little harder, fast and rough against her clit, and her head ends up falling against his shoulder instead, breath hot and heavy against his neck. “ _Fuck_ , Robin, feels so good.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, toes curling against the stone tile in anticipation.

She nods fervently against his neck, practically half in his lap now, her dress bunching just shy of her hips. “Missed you,” she mumbles, pressing a wet kiss below his ear. “Kept thinking about coming home to this all day, could hardly — fuck, _fuck_!” she gasps, just shy of a squeak as she arches against him and suddenly her breasts are _there_ , a good half foot from his face and he can’t tear his eyes away, tempted beyond belief to just tug a sleeve off of her shoulder and expose her enough to savor. “Could hardly stop myself,” she confesses, lips pressed right up against his ear as she drops a hand to the back of the couch for better purchase, “from coming when I touched myself earlier, wanted — _oh_! Wanted you with me, fuck, Robin,” she chokes out, whining as she drops her head to his shoulder.

His hand freezes halfway to her breast, the admission punching a low groan out of him and his cock is straining against his slacks, achingly hard to the point where he’s desperate, craving for any relief. _Christ_ , he wants to be inside of her, has no idea how long he’ll last and honestly doesn’t really care, can hardly keep his wits about him enough to focus. He eases up a bit, slowing his strokes but not withdrawing, thumb the gentlest of grazes as he arches, rolls circles over her clit. “I’m here now,” he murmurs, voice low and god, absolutely fucking wrecked. He presses a kiss to her temple to give them both a brief buffer, then drops his lips down to her ear and slows the movement of his fingers almost to a full stop. “Come for me, darling.”

His fingers drag out, just enough to draw out that slick friction she likes so much, and he’s just about to press, curl back inside and pick up pace to the point of bringing her over when she smacks a hand down and grabs at his wrist, holding him in place. Some of the tension in his belly uncoils, just a bit, his brow knitting in confusion, and it’s a long few seconds that she takes to catch her breath before she lifts her head to look at him, eyes surprisingly clear and gaze steady. “Not like this,” she says, just shy of a rasp, and before he can do little more than open his mouth to speak, she’s pulling away, forcing his fingers to slip out of her. He can’t help but huff disbelievingly at her as she shifts out of his lap, but his incredulity is gone in an instant when she rocks up onto her knees and leans in close again, hands reaching for his belt. “I want to come with you inside of me.”

His answering exhale is low, heavy and sharp, but he leaves his hands at his sides and lets her work at his belt, the button and clasps and zipper of his trousers. “No handle on Valentine’s Day, huh?” he teases.

Her eyes flick up to meet his as she carefully pulls down the zipper. “I have wanted you inside of me for the last three days,” she murmurs. “Isn’t there some sort of rule about being extra self-indulgent on Valentine’s Day?”

“I’d say they’re more guidelines than actual rules,” he chuckles. Her fingers grip the hem of his shirt, tug, push, pull a little until he arches off of the back of the couch enough to make it easier for her to shove it up and over his head. “And when have _you_ ,” he drawls, smiling bemusedly at her as she tosses his polo aside, “ever acted with any sort of regard for what society’s expectation might be?”

Regina scoffs, mutters _some society_ derisively under her breath and straightens up again before meeting his eyes once more. “Not in this life — or the one Before,” she says, and without so much as another word, she’s hooking her fingers beneath the hem of her dress and pulling up, over and off, dropping it next to his shirt on the far side of the couch. “Now,” she huffs, gloriously naked before him, and there’s something low, wanting and daring in her voice, “are you going to take your pants off, or am I going to have to make myself come?”

“A simple please would suffice,” Robin teases, but he lifts his hips off of the couch all the same, tugging slacks and boxers down in one go and leaving them in a pile on the floor. Regina shakes her head at him but she’s smiling, bemused and bright as she shuffles in close again and moves to straddle him, a leg on either side.

But Robin too, has thoughts — desires of his own, so he hooks his arms around her middle and shifts forward, pushing up to stand. Her breath hitches a touch in surprise, arms and legs wrapping around him automatically for purchase. He half-expects a protest, some remark or glare to express her indignance at having the tables turn on her, but all he gets from her is an arched eyebrow, clearly conveying her curiosity. “You’re not the only one with plans,” he murmurs, lungs straining from holding back the breath of a groan at the way her sex feels brushing lightly against his cock, wet and warm and inviting.

And she knows — she _knows_ , his fucking minx of a wife, and there is nothing at all convincing about the way she plays at innocence in her expression, not with the way she curls a little closer and tightens her hold, pulling herself flush against him. He swallows hard and that too, doesn’t go unmissed, but Robin manages to find some pleasure in the fact that each step he takes (very, very carefully) around the coffee table gives the same teasing friction that he gets. And Regina is not unaffected either, each breath shallow even as her eyes never leave his, rocking her hips ever so slightly against him.

He taps her legs when he comes to rest in front of the fireplace, prompting her back onto her feet. “Lie down,” he requests, squeezing her hips meaningfully.

Regina’s lips quirk up into a smirk, but she does as she’s asked, eyes growing dark as she settles down on the rug in front of the fireplace and props herself up on her elbows, bare and gloriously on display for him. “Fulfilling a little fantasy of your own, are we?” she quips, teasing.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, feigning indifference as he kneels down in front of her. “When you said we couldn’t have sex in the kitchen, I had to come up with some alternatives. Fucking you by firelight,” he confesses, crawling closer, “may have been on the short list.”

“Well, we’re here now, and I suppose,” she muses, arching up into him when he hovers over her, “you did save room for dessert.”

The very _second_ Regina parts her legs for him, Robin is gripping her hip and hooking her leg loosely around his waist, forehead falling to rest against hers when he lines up, presses inside. The breathy groan Regina releases as she stretches around his cock is enough to make him want to fucking _devour_ her, but his brain short-circuits for a half moment, arousal a low, harsh blow at the bottom of his spine. He’s too worked up, too aching and desperate and this will not take long at _all_ , not if he snaps his hips hard and sharp against her the way he wants to. And beyond the inevitable Christmas-come-early quip he’s sure Regina would have at the ready, Robin very much wants to avoid rushing through this. Oh he wants to come, certainly, needs to, and soon, but he does want to savor, to linger and love and give her everything she’s asked for.

Always.

So it’s with a few deep, deliberate breaths that Robin settles over her properly, hips rocking in a gentle pivot that echoes the earlier movement of his fingers. Regina sighs, light and happy and entirely without restraint as she practically melts into the floor and smiles up at him. She’ll need more to come, needs to build, regain a little of the momentum she’s lost in the interim — the slow, gentle grind against him tells him she’s chasing that, a little at a time. But the moment he commits to getting Regina off is also the moment he makes the same commitment for himself because there is absolutely no holding off after that, not after the shift to fast, hard, the tight vice around him when she reaches her peak. Under other circumstances, perhaps, holding out wouldn’t be such a lofty pipe dream.

For now, Robin tries to use what little time he has wisely, props himself up on an elbow and ducks down to finally, blissfully suck one of her nipples into his mouth, hand grazing along the underside of her breast. He feels Regina’s answering moan all the way in the pit of his belly, and he can’t quite help the way he jerks against her when her toes curl, drag along his calf. He releases her nipple with a wet _pop_ , slows the undulation of his hips to a near stop and rests his forehead in the valley between her breasts, breathing heavily. “Don’t stop,” she urges, fingers sinking into his hair to try and guide him back.

Robin huffs and glances up at her, smile tight around the edges. “I’m just as worked up as you are here, darling,” he reminds her, unable to help sounding a little strained. “I nearly came in my fucking trousers a bit ago, I’m trying to last here. And I swear to god, if you so much as say a word about Christmas coming early —”

“Just a little longer,” she pleads, shifting up onto her elbows and christ, she must be just as bad off as he is if she’s letting that one slide. “Here, can we —” She pushes herself up a little farther, guiding him back, and he lets her lead, place his hands on her hips and hoist her up into his lap as he settles back onto his haunches. Her arms and legs are wrapped around him again but she stays seated on his cock, arms a bit tense as she clings to him tight. She’s trying to put them on even footing here, choosing a position that requires them both to work a bit more for a payoff, staves off his orgasm a bit longer and helps hers build a bit more quickly.

And… fuck, if this position doesn’t do things for him, honestly, because beyond making it more likely that they’ll come together — or close to it, anyway — Robin lives for the sheer intimacy of this embrace. Immediately, he’s lost in all of her warmth, chests pressed right up against each other as he holds her close, keeps her seated on top of him. He revels in the harsh dig of her heels into the small of his back, can feel every last muscle in her thighs working as she rides, rocks against him. He can match her more easily this way, can pivot up into her heat without worrying about going too fast, too hard, but it also means his cock fills her differently in this position — stretching wider, sinking a touch deeper, shifting the angle.

So Regina builds, skin glistening just a bit as sweat starts to gather on her brow, the back of her neck, and it’s then Robin takes note of the impact of the fire wrapping its heat around them — the slick wet against their skin, the extra rosy flush in Regina’s cheeks (his too, probably, doesn’t know, doesn’t care), the way their breath comes more shallow, sharp than it would without. Her body trembles a bit more with each undulation of her hips, eyes fighting to stay open as she loses herself in the sheer magnitude of feeling. He can see it there, in her eyes, can feel it beneath his hands in every short, quick breath she takes: she’s close again, walls of her sex fluttering around him in anticipation, and he can give her this, now, that last push over the edge.

She can take him tumbling with her.

“What do you need?” he murmurs, voice low and thick with arousal. She doesn’t answer him for a moment, eyes closed as she picks up pace, rocks, rolls against him, so Robin slides a hand down her chest, leaning back a bit to create enough space to pay proper attention to her clit.

But Regina curls back in and shakes her head fervently, teeth digging into her bottom lip. “ _Don’t_ stop,” she says, voice thin and a bit reedy, and it is every bit a command as it is a plea. She fucks against him a little harder, forcing him to keep up, and the earlier coiling at his core is wound up tight, now, aching for release.

Suddenly it’s hard to breathe, the air too-thick around them, smoke in the currents, and it’s all Robin can do to stay focused, present as she pulls him up, racing, toward the peak they’ve been longing to reach. His hands sink into her hair, thread and tangle and grip tight, barely the space of a breath between them as her breath pitches high, keening and _Robin_ and _fuck, baby, so close_ and _yes, yes, there, that’s — oh, oh! Baby, I — fuck, FUCK_! And at last Regina comes all around him, sex squeezing strong around his cock as her hands grip for purchase anywhere she can find once, twice, four times, clinging to him and riding it out, a litany of soft, babbled sighs spilling into his ears as she trembles her way through it.

Robin, surprisingly — incredibly, perplexingly — does not come.

Not yet.

It’s a near thing, a very, very fucking near thing, but Robin holds her impossibly close and tries to breathe through it, fast and deep and barely controlled. Every slight spasm of her sex around his cock, every minute jerk of her body against his is a test in self-control, tempting him toward release, but he bites his lip hard and tries not to move too much — a difficult enough feat to accomplish in and of itself with the way his body is practically vibrating out of his skin with heightened arousal and sheer, utter desperation. And he manages to hold off, waits until he feels her legs relax just a little around him, but that’s as long as he lasts.

He shifts up with a slight groan, keeping firm hold of her as he maneuvers them back into their original position, cock still tucked tight into her sex. Regina inhales sharply in surprise, eyes fluttering open just in time to arch up into the kiss he bestows upon her, and then he’s gently lowering her the rest of the way down, uncurling her legs from around him as he goes. He braces a hand on either side of her head to keep himself propped up, breathing hard as he tries to settle into the position, and the most he can manage in terms of affection is an attempt at a smile and eyes locked with hers.

And then Robin snaps his hips forward _hard_ , entirely expects the startled shout that escapes Regina’s chest as she arches up off of the floor slightly, and then he’s snapping forward again, and again and god, yes, this is exactly what he’s needed. He needs the warm, wet heat of her, needs the slick, dragging friction as he pulls out, just by half, before pressing all the way back in again. And he needs, wants, _has_ what he’d desired earlier, the tight hold of Regina’s sex just after she’s come, every point of contact amplified from her heightened state of arousal and fuck, fuck, christ, fuck, he’s nearly there, can feel it creeping up on him, balls growing tight against him. Another sharp snap of hips, _Regina_ gasped from his lips and he’s rocking forward fast, struggling to keep his eyes open. _Regina_ again and his arms are shaking with the effort of keeping himself propped up —

Regina’s touch startles him into full focus, edging his orgasm just a bit longer, and it takes him a second to place it, eyes casting over her body until he follows the length of her arm down, down, down to where her fingers are _flying_ over her clit in sharp, quick circles. She’s already looking at him when he shift his gaze back up, chest heaving as she works herself over and fuck, she’s _stunning_ like this, sweaty and bare and all aglow from firelight. And _there’s_ that fucking smile, the one she saves for him, breathless and bright and utterly unburdened and he is so in love with her it hurts to fucking _breathe_ at the moment.

And then she’s coming again with a drawn out, guttural scream, head tossed back and eyes squeezed shut, every last line of her body taut, tense, trembling with the sheer force of her orgasm. And Robin — Robin has no choice but to fuck her through it, _hard_ and without restraint, his breath stolen from his lungs all at once instead of a little at a time. He keeps his eyes open long enough to keep control over his hips, leaning into the way her sex grips tight, vice-like around his cock. He pivots forward once, twice before he spills into her white hot and thick, orgasm _slamming_ into him and rendering him incapable of so much as a fucking _sound_ for the length of it. Her hands grasp fitfully at his ass, his shoulder as his eyes slip shut of their own accord. Regina’s thighs _quake_ around him, echoing the tremors that run up along his arms, and the second the edge starts to taper off, Robin buckles, falling flush against her.

It’s there at the center of home, bathed in fire and pressed heart-to-heart that Robin’s soul skitters along the line of the bond toward Regina’s — sinking into safety and drowning all the way Up.

He’s no idea how long he loses focus, mind more fuzzy than it has been all day, but he drifts through the aftershocks, misses the slight, sporadic pulses into her and the rhythmic contract and release of her sex around his cock as she tries to find a way to fall back down to center. He feels almost none of it, pleasure fissuring through every last nerve and vein until he’s nearly boneless against her, hot and heavy and happy.

It’s not until Regina starts to relinquish her grip on him that Robin finds himself pulled back to present. His brow furrows against her neck as she skitters her fingers up along his back in an attempt at affection, but there are tremors in her hands and each movement is awkward, jerky as she tries to soothe and settle. “R’gina,” he mumbles against her neck, not quite able to find the wherewithal to look at her, much less _move_. “You alright?”

“Fine,” she answers, airy and strained and absolutely a lie, she is _not_ fine. Her legs are still trembling a bit, he can feel that now, each breath she strives for short and struggling under his weight.

He sucks in a deep breath and forces himself up a bit, groaning only a little as he props himself up on his arms, lifting just enough weight off of her to help her breathe a little easier. And that… seems to help, a little — her breaths are instantly deeper, more full — but without his weight on her she can’t hide just how affected she is, eyes unfocused as her whole body vibrates beneath him. “Regina,” he murmurs, thumb somehow managing to graze along her jawline to try and get her to focus, “you are shaking something awful, darling, you’re not alright.”

A breath punches out of her lungs around a high laugh and _oh_ , that’s… not at all what he’d been expecting. “I’m fine, you idiot,” she sighs, still laughing a bit, and with every second that passes, her hands shake less and less where they’re smoothing up and down his sides. “I don’t normally come twice in the space of two minutes, give me a few here.”

Robin exhales sharply through his nose in relief; every muscle in his body is screaming, sore, but his mind is remarkably clear all things considered. A smile curls onto his face, simple and easy and bemused, and he can’t resist leaning in again to nose along her jawline, peppering kisses as he goes. “I forgot,” he says between kisses, voice still sounding a bit rough. “You had a birthday recently, didn’t you?”

Her fingers dig, sting into his sides, causing a laugh (a laugh, a chuckle, not a giggle, he doesn’t giggle either, oh god, he’s never going to hear the end of this) to bubble up out of him. “And which one of us had to pace themselves so Christmas didn’t come early again?” she teases back, turning her face to his.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” he laughs, grazing a kiss or two against her lips. “Should’ve known I wasn’t getting away with that one.”

“Mmm, to be fair,” Regina muses, kissing him once more before pulling back to settle, “you knew I make just as many terrible jokes as you do when you married me.”

This time the arrow goes all the way through at _you married me_ , but it leaves no hole behind, no wound open to bleed. “Can I get that in writing?” he asks, grinning at her exasperated sigh. He leans in for another kiss but she turns her head away, denying him. The movement jostles them both a bit, making him uncomfortably aware of the way he’s gone mostly soft inside of her. “Alright if I pull out?” he asks, dropping a kiss to her clavicle.

She nods, face pinched like she’s a little uncomfortable too. Robin pushes himself back up with a groan, balancing his weight on his hands for a moment as he hovers over her. He’s about to shift his knees, legs back to pull out of her when her hand reaches around quick to grab his ass, holding him in place. He huffs out a breath, elbows buckling as he raises his eyebrows in silent expectation. “Washcloth?” she requests breathlessly, fingers flexing against him. “Just… something to clean up with. I don’t want to make a mess of the rug.”

He decides, rather wisely, that pointing out the irony of the request — if he’s using magic to conjure a cloth for her, they can also use magic to clean any mess from the rug — isn’t worth shifting the mood. It’s another fruitless argument, the same as every one that has him countering with _immortal_ , and frankly, he just wants to get comfortable and curl around her to more properly enjoy the afterglow. So it’s with a flick of his wrist that he conjures up two washcloths from the bathroom upstairs, each appropriately damp for the task at hand. He pulls out, presses the cloth against her and leaves her to clean up to her own standards, movements practiced, fluid from months of exhibitionism around Holiday Land — most recently just last month, in Valentine’s Town.

Tomorrow, he thinks, might just warrant a repeat performance.

Once they’ve cleaned up and discarded the cloths there’s a brief moment of hesitation as they glance around the room to contemplate their next move. His knees ache a little uncomfortably as he rests on his haunches, the rug doing only a little to cushion him against the stone tile beneath. Once glance at Regina tells him that she’s feeling the harsh discomfort of lying on such a hard surface for so long, brow pinched as she tries to prop herself up on her elbows in a way that doesn’t hurt.

His eyes fall to the couch, then, inspiration striking, and it’s with another flick of his wrist that he beckons a few of the pillows and the throw draped over the back of the couch to levitate toward them. Regina casts him a grateful smile and reaches for the first one, shifting to situate the pillow beneath her. Robin moves toward her once more, taking the two pillows that follow, and it’s only another moment before they’re situated comfortably on the ground, facing the fireplace and cushioned against the stone in the places they need it most. The blanket arrives last, unfolds itself over them and waits for Robin’s guidance before it settles on their hips, draping over their legs.

Regina murmurs a soft _thank you_ as she settles all the way down, snuggling against him, her back to his front. Robin’s arm curls around her waist with ease, left stretching out over the pillow she’s using. Her left hand reaches up to meet him, fingertips tracing over the mark on his wrist before she slots their fingers together, and Robin’s thumb traces over her matching mark in kind, touch gentle and reverent.

In the quiet, their hearts beat together as one.

He buries his nose against her hair, unable to look away from the places where their skin had been seared, branded in vow, and he cannot help, doesn’t want to ever get tired of the way his heart stutters in chest at the sight of hers. They’re faint, the bands, a whisper against their skin that isn’t always visible upon first glance, but that hardly matters — it’s sort of the entire point, honestly. There’s a _reason_ most of Holiday Land’s residents end up as commitment-phobic: the bond, once forged, can only be broken for a price, and for most, it’s considered much too steep to chance.

For Robin, it’s not a price he would pay even if he _wanted_ to; he doesn’t think he ever could.

So he feels rather justified in his magnetism with the marks, really, but he tries not to dwell too long at any one time lest the thrill of it start to dull, dissipate. He has all of eternity — or eternity by their own measure, with an eye still on the Surface — to marvel at being married to her, to love and to cherish.

To hold tight to the bond at the precipice, and not Fall.

“Robin?” she murmurs, reclaiming his attention. He _hmm_ s in reply, smoothes his palm over her belly and relishes in her warmth. “...You named one of the cats, didn’t you?”

He freezes up a bit, hand halting on her belly as the memory of his little slip-up in the kitchen earlier wedges its way into the forefront of his mind. A beat, and then, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, a hint of knowing in her tone and fuck, he’s caught out.

“Alright, in my defense,” he says, tucking his chin over her shoulder, “the little gray one is rather precious.”

Regina snorts a little and he doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s rolling her eyes at him. But then she’s shifting in his embrace, twisting and arching slightly so she can look back at him, and while she’s very clearly judging him, she doesn’t seem to actually be all that upset. “Okay, but Ghost?” she asks, nose wrinkling a little. “Why not Smokey or Shadow or something more fitting?”

“I don’t know,” he dismisses, smile playing at his lips as he mirrors her expression. “It was just the first thing that popped into my head.” At that, Regina’s brow shoots up to her hairline, and it takes a few seconds longer than he’s proud of for the realization to land with him. “Oh god,” he groans, blinking in surprise. “I live in Halloween Town now, don’t I?”

Regina tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, grinning. “Don’t sound so horrified.”

“I didn’t mean —”

“I know, I know, don’t worry,” she laughs, arching up to buss a kiss against his lips. “You’ve still got plenty of jollies left in you, Tinsel Town.”

And that’s — oh.

He falters halfway to a kiss, the nickname not at all landing the way she’d intended, and he feels it dig down deep to the places most dark at the fringes of his soul. And he tries to bury it again, he does, wills himself to lean in the rest of the way and meet her for another kiss. But he can’t, he’s practically frozen in place as Christmas crashes into him with all of the force of a snowbank, cold and paralyzing and dusting his vision until he can’t see straight and _fuck_.

“Hey,” Regina prompts warmly, hand cupping his face to get him to look at her, her front pressed against his and when had she turned all the way around? He swallows hard, blinks rapidly to try and force himself to focus again, heart a too-quick jump-flip-beat and chest feeling too-tight around the edges and —

And then the tension unfurls at his core, anxiety receding as his vision clears, focuses, steadies to meet her eyes. Every breath he takes is slower than the last, heart coming down to rest, each beat matching the gentle pulse in her wrist that thrums against his cheek. But clarity doesn’t come, not quite yet, and it’s only when he tries to _stop_ thinking clearly, when his mind is blank and at ease and more receptive that he can feel the vestiges of magic — _her_ magic in his veins.

But she doesn’t — it doesn’t seem like she’s doing it on purpose, trying to coerce his body into calm with magic. There’s too much concern still in her eyes for that, too much tension in her body that he can feel under his hands and each breath she takes is measured, just shy of skipping with worry. His brow knits with confusion, eyes narrowing as he tries to concentrate on the intrusion (well, more intrusive than usual, since the ceremony last month, anyway). He follows the way it ebbs and flows, traces it back, back, back until he finds the source — feels the way the air around his left wrist buzzes and hums, like the pinpricks of a limb fallen asleep.

This is… bond magic.

That’s… certainly interesting.

“Robin,” she says, tilting her head to force herself in his line of sight. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, suddenly, inexplicably calm, and he lets his gaze linger a little longer at the mark on his wrist before shifting it to hers. He fights against the itch to reach out and touch hers again; he’s curious, but it’ll only provoke more questions, and this discovery is probably left best to another day, another time. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, pressing a kiss to her palm as he looks back to her.

Her eyes narrow a titch, like she knows there’s more to his little apparent anxiety attack, but after a moment of studying him something shifts in her eyes — an all too familiar mirror of the ghost they’d left behind in the kitchen earlier. He knows what’s coming, he does, and she only proves his right when she ventures, “Unpause?”

Reluctantly, Robin agrees. “Unpause,” he sighs, trying to make himself comfortable amongst the pillows again.

And just like before, Regina’s protest is damn near prepared, ready and waiting to be put forth. “I know you’re tired,” she says gently as she curls in a little closer, hand falling to rest at his collarbone. “I don’t blame you, and if you really don’t want to keep talking about it, we don’t have to, but just… let me get this out, please?”

Something twists in Robin’s chest at that, aching and uncomfortable. “I’m listening.”

She takes a beat to look at him, thumb sweeping up over the apple of his cheek, and there is something so utterly tender in her gaze that he finds it damn near impossible to even so much as think about denying her this — to letting all of the blue shadow him in shades of self-doubt. “I know you feel a little… out of place right now — okay, maybe a _lot_ out of place,” she amends, noticing every small twitch and tell in his expression, fuck. “And I would never begrudge you the right to feel that way, but I _promise_ you,” she insists, voice dropping, edging with earnest, “that what you’re trying to do? What you’ve always done? What you’ve been working so hard on? That gives you a place of your own, one that no one else _has_.”

“Save for you,” he points out needlessly, but the words pull at him in all the right places, remind him of the person Regina sees — the person he tries so hard, every day, to remember he is, always has been, has yet to become. He is books and myth and legend, arrows and garden and glen, every bit the man behind the mask who’d stepped into the light.

Her lips purse, just a hint, like she wants to protest or claim otherwise, diminish her own part in this, but he can see the struggle in her eyes, the way truth zings against self-doubt and pushes forward into the light. He can almost see it in her eyes, the split-second her earlier words come back to her — _we’re in this together_ — and there is so _much_ understanding between them that it takes his breath away a bit. “And me,” she agrees at last, doesn’t even sound begrudging about it. “And… if we do this right, if we do this together? Then we create spaces down here for people who might never have one otherwise.”

Robin softens around the edges at that, but the anxiety that had fizzled out earlier creeps back in, a slight twist in his belly that has his smile faltering. “I know,” he says, dropping his gaze. “I’m just — I don’t know that I’ll be able to. I don’t know that I’m really capable of it, not like this, not when it’s this… immense. Important.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Regina insists, hooking her fingers under his chin to force him to look at her again, “you are.”

A laugh startles out of him, breathless and bitter and barely held back and his eyes are stinging with no, no, he got over this before he got home, bloody hell. “How are you so certain?” he asks, voice thick and wet and _why_ is he letting this consume him again, fuck.

And inexplicably, Regina smiles at him, grip on his chin relaxing a bit as she gives him a once over. “The same way I know a lot of things about you,” she says simply. “The same way I know you will always do your best to be fair and unbiased — because of the way you hesitate, and dig, and learn, and see _people_ beyond pages. The same way I know you’d —”

She stops, chin trembling ever so slightly for a second, but she swallows, presses on. “The same way I know that if we’d gone back to the Surface last month, if we _ever_ decide to go back, you would be the most… thoughtful, and _warm_ father,” she breathes, and his heart leaps into his throat, forces tears into his eyes that he only _just_ manages to keep at bay. “Because of the time you’ve taken to find the ones the world forgets about, or mistreats, because of the way you — god,” she laughs wetly, shaking her head. “Because of how you went _out_ of your way to seek out every single one of those kids whose parents were taken from them last year and try and bring _balance_ back to their lives.”

One last pause, this time to take a breath, and then Regina’s leaning in as close as she can, body pressed flush against him, lips a breath away as she nudges his nose with her own. “Because of the way you fell on your fucking sword for me,” she chuckles, sniffing, and where there should be traces of dark, guilt, Robin can find none at all. “Because you love me, and you’re an _idiot_ , and because I love you for both of those things.

“Because you believed in me when almost no one else did,” she says softly, resting her forehead against his, “and I have all of eternity to show up for you, too.”

Their lips meet in a mix of wet, salt, warm, and somewhere along the bond Robin loses sight of where he ends and Regina begins, both of them breath and heart in the space between two lungs. It’s here he feels most safe, in the eye of Regina’s storm, and it’s surprisingly easy to let go and leave doubt in the shadows, drifting, drowning in Regina’s calm and light. “You know,” he mumbles against her lips, laugh hiccuping up out of him as he stays nuzzled close, “there are days when I’ve really no bloody idea what I ever did to deserve a second chance with you.”

“Well,” she muses, dropping a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “if today is one of those days, then I’d remind you —” she pulls back just enough to meet his eyes dead on again “— that you gave me one, first.”


End file.
